Let the Rain Fall
by Staple Gunner
Summary: They say you never realize how much something means to you until it's gone. Character death, possible OOC.


It was an accident, they told him. An accident, and nothing more. Everything had gone according to plan, until he entered the target's home. Then, one by one, things began to go wrong. There were more guards than there should have been. The security systems were upgraded. They'd sent only one of their elite in the belief that the mission would be simple. Just like any other. It was an accident. A miscalculation.

He was tiring, his reactions becoming slower and slower, bit by bit. Panting and spattered with blood, there was no way Squalo could have seen it coming. The staccato of gunfire rang once more through the house. A flash of silver, then red. Squalo swayed where he stood, and leaned over to catch his breath. He heard the click of a safety and looked up.

It was an accident. A mistake. A low-ranked member sent to back up the swordsman heard a single gunshot from above, different from the rain of bullets he had accustomed himself to. In an instant comprehension struck him heavier than a load of bricks, and he ran.

He was the only one who survived that night, and upon returning to the headquarters alone, was greeted by silence. After what seemed like an eternity, one of the men in Xanxus' office spoke up. "Where's Squalo?" the blond ventured hesitantly. The uneasy feeling spread to everyone in the room until it seemed almost palpable. The subordinate hung his head in shame and forced the words from his lips. At first no one in the room knew he had spoken, but then he repeated himself in barely more than a whisper. "It was an accident."

The man then collapsed onto the floor and was quickly taken to be treated. Meanwhile, Xanxus' office was silent. No one moved. No one spoke. The entire room was as if it were frozen in time. Any words they might have said seemed to be swallowed up by the emptiness before they could be spoken.

Then Xanxus scoffed, a derisive, disbelieving sound. All eyes fixated on him. "Fucking useless trash." He stood up and glared at the room's other occupants, who shrank back from the sheer intensity in the man's eyes. "What are you all sitting around here for? Don't you have more important things to do than waste my time?" The simple normality of his words jarred the men.

"Boss, Squalo--" Lussuria began nervously, but Xanxus cut him off.

"Did you really believe that, stupid fag? Fuck, Squalo's weak, but he's not that weak. He'll be back." He spat the last sentence with a sort of ringing finality, and the sureness in his voice somehow set the rest of the Varia at ease. One by one, they filed out of the room, until only Xanxus was left. He gazed out the window, the sky a dusky gray in the first light of dawn. He knew Squalo would be back. He wouldn't lose to such weak pieces of shit. There wasn't a hint of doubt in Xanxus' mind. Not one.

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Three days passed. Xanxus received a note from the infirmary that the subordinate who'd reported to his office three days earlier had died. He crumpled it in his fist and tossed it towards the waste bin. It bounced off the rim and landed on the floor. Xanxus scowled and turned to look out the window. His aim had worsened without Squalo around as a target. Rain pelted the glass, soft and somber. Serene. Xanxus grimaced and drew the curtains.

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Before Xanxus knew it, a week had gone by, and another, and another. There was no word from Squalo. The door would often open to Xanxus' office, and he'd look up from his paperwork expecting to see his faithful right-hand, and see only a useless underling who he would then proceed to berate within an inch of their life. Alone in his office he would absently call Squalo's name from time to time as he sorted paperwork, giving orders to the air and receiving silence in reply. He resolved to punish Squalo when he returned, and teach him a lesson in punctuality.

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Xanxus did not miss Squalo. Not one bit. A month had slipped by without Squalo, and Xanxus didn't miss him. In fact, he rather liked it. He had accepted the nagging doubt in his mind and come to terms with the fact that Squalo was indeed dead as a metaphorical doornail. It was much quieter, much more peaceful. He no longer had an obnoxious, silver-haired shadow that yelled and bitched like a hormonal woman. He didn't have to listen to the man chatter excitedly about his latest sword technique or what swordsman he beat yesterday. He was better off without Squalo monopolizing his attentions. All in all, a gain. To Xanxus, Squalo was easily forgotten.

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Xanxus was breaking. He kept it a secret and lied to everyone, even himself. Especially himself. He never spoke of those times he caught a flash of silver and chased it until he couldn't run anymore. Those times he tossed and turned in vivid dreams of times slipped through his fingers like rain in a storm. Those times he could still smell Squalo's hair, feel it twined in his fingers, hear him yelling, screaming, whispering, sighing. Those times he didn't want to wake up.

He denied it. He shook the remnants of dreams from his head and threw himself into his work. When he ran out of work, he went into unused rooms and destroyed things. When he ran out of things to destroy, he went outside and shot birds out of the sky. Anything to distract himself. Xanxus had never cared for Squalo. He wasn't going to start now. It did nothing to assuage the hollow feeling that he carried with him.

His bed was not exempt from the emptiness that now pervaded every aspect of Xanxus' life. It was too big. He still slept on the right side as he always had, still hogged all the blankets, and yet most nights his sleep was fitful and hard to come by. He would wake up in the middle of the night and roll over, expecting to see the comforting sight of Squalo sleeping beside him, the slow rise and fall of his chest. It had been the only time Xanxus could remember when Squalo was quiet. He would snort derisively and bury his head in his pillow in a futile search for sleep.

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It hadn't rained in months. The sun scorched the land, day after day, turning the grass a brittle yellow and cracking the soil beneath it. The Vongola was unaffected, but it became rather unnerving after the first few months. The flowers Bel and Lussuria had planted on Squalo's makeshift grave had long since wilted, much to the chagrin of the two. Every overcast day was a tentative promise; the city silent with held breaths, and a collective sigh of defeat when the clouds passed over.

It was such a day when Xanxus finally stooped low enough to contact the noble who Squalo had been sent to assassinate on that fateful night. He wrote off a brief letter saying a silver-haired swordsman had been seen there last, and he needed his whereabouts. He signed it with a fake name and sent it off, the return address that of a PO box he had rented for just that purpose.

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The clouds hung low over the city when a response arrived a few days later. It was as short as the one Xanxus had sent.

_We regret to inform you that we have not seen anyone by that description passing through this area.  
We ask your forgiveness and pray that we may be more helpful to you in the future._

Xanxus grit his teeth and tore the letter in two as the first drops of rain began to fall. It was slow at first, then gradually grew into a downpour. It only worsened his mood. He stormed down the stairs and out the back door. He walked a few steps, then staggered, then fell to his knees on the grass and screamed. Everything he'd held back came pouring out. The rain soaked him to the skin and ran down his face in a mockery of the tears he could not shed. Almost a year later, he broke. This was his mourning.

He raised his head to the sky and let the rain fall.


End file.
